CANDLE IN THE WIND
It was a beautiful December morning, with the sunlight warm, soft and mellow. It fell on one gently, like the indulging hand with which a mother might caress her children, like the answer to one’s prayers, like the forgiving hand of a priest on the sinner’s head. It was time to forget all petty ill-feelings one harbours and to look upon each other like one’s own brothers and sisters. The sunlight seemed to wash away everything, cleanse everything. The blooming flowers swayed in the soft breeze, and the bees gathered the nectar flitting carelessly here and there. One felt happy and soothed in a very unobtrusive way. My love was playing the piano, now softly, now with force, creating a magical effect, as the notes meandered like a stream, or fell with the force of a waterfall. The meek tremulous notes would be coy and playful, and the bass chords would sound and take them in their shelter, as it were. My love was looking very beautiful. There was a smile on her lips; it was as if the happiness she was feeling inside could not be contained and had to overflow: hence the smile. The sunlight came in through the window and fell on her graceful figure. Ah! Happy Sunlight! Would that I could have been thou! Would that I could also caress the soft skin and gentle face of that fair angel with thy tender glow, rather than my coarse, unholy hands! Would that, like thee, I could happily trip through her hair, weaving a gossamer texture around the edges…!
…It was at this point, as I was lost in fascination at her beauty; contemplating her hair and her skin, listening to her music, that I let out a fart. It was not too loud, but it was protracted; starting out like the hiss of steam escaping, it ended up sounding like a bass note on a saxophone played out of key. I forgot to mention: the day, in all other respects so perfect, was marred by only one thing, and that was my indigestion. I’d been suffering from it for the past few days, but this day it was at its peak. In point of fact, I was pleasantly surprised that this unfortunate expression of my illness had not found vent till now, and with an embarrassed look on my face and with a quivering trepidation in my heart, I waited for what was sure to follow: my love would lose her concentration, she would stop playing and look at me with disgust for having introduced a discordant note into the proceedings, and I would be wishing the earth would open and swallow me up.
But my love, I was happy to see, was showing the least signs of being disturbed. Whether it was that the offending sound was too feeble or whether she was so totally and completely immersed in her music, I cannot say. Blissfully she went on playing, with that lovely and unconscious smile lighting up her delicate features, and with an inward expression of gratitude, I did not budge, but kept my place as before, and listened to her music.
I do know what she was playing. It was some Western Classical. Probably it was Mozart, but I cannot say for sure. It might have been Beethoven, but then again it might not. Actually I know the names of only three or four composers. Two I have mentioned already, then there was Bach, and then there was that Russian sounding name…some Star or something, which I cannot remember at present. However, it has always been my belief that the music, the emotions it engenders, the way you interpret it, is more important than such pedantry; as a result, whenever my love would deign to play the piano for me, I would not bother myself with such issues, but instead give up to the music, and feel the communion of our souls taking place in the sadness and sweetness of the notes, mingling like waves in the sea. This was one of the most beautiful moments I have ever experienced, this culmination of unspoken words, this climax of the emotions, when the heart is almost ready to weep, so filled to the brim it is with of joy.
It was the second fart that was louder. And this time, it did register. Her eyes, which had been closed partially, as happens when one is lost in music, widened with a wondering expression, and her right eyebrow lifted of its own accord, as if questioning what jangling sound did penetrate the far away secluded mists in which her soul had been flying. However, she had to get back to her sheet immediately, or else she would have lost track of the notes. So she continued. All the same, I could see that it had made itself felt; of that there was no doubt. The smile had left her face. Instead, a slight frown clouded her pure,lofty brow. Her movements lost their original feathery lightness, and became rather abrupt. After a while her olfactory organ twitched: a result of diffusion – the spreading of the molecules of a gas due to the presence of a pressure gradient between one species of molecules and another - or so my physics textbooks inform me. And the music, though technically correct, I am sure, lacked that finesse: that peculiar undefinable thing which separates the heart from the mind. Or perhaps it was only my imagination, my guilty conscience playing havoc. I do not know. All I know is that I had introduced a jarring note into the proceedings, and the only option open to me was to forbear repeating the unfortunate accident, and to sit and pretend that nothing had happened, and to sit and pretend that I was as taken with the music as before. This was the least I could do for my love, who after all seldom shares her music with anyone whom she considers unworthy or lacking in musical sense. My musical ineptitude had become a by-word with her when about three months ago, she was trying to teach me the piano, and I couldn’t make sense of the semi quavers and the hemi demi quavers and all that, all those weird upturned blobs, and she had shouted,”Dammit! Even a horse will have better musical sense than you !” “Really?”, I had responded. “In that case why don’t you get one in my place?” I immediately regretted speaking like this to my love, and I apologised profusely.Things had flared up, and we were almost on the point of break-up, but I persisted, and thankfully, we patched up, otherwise, as the present occasion bore witness, I would have lost the magic of the present moment for ever. Yes! This was a special occasion, and I had no right to ruin it so demeaningly! I sat on, trying to put up a brave face. God! The turbulence raging in my mind! How I wished I had not hogged at a party which was the cause of my present situation. But all these lamentations were in vain. What had happened could not be undone, and the only hope lay in salvaging the present and the future. So I sat there resolutely, determined to silence any rumblings that would threaten to break out.
And then, as the astute observer of life might have guessed, the inevitable happened. This time it was positively a din, like the sound of cloth being torn, …I wonder if anything was torn inside me; for a moment I was terribly worried, and just like a rattle snake rattles loudest when it is about to die, so was the case with me. Immediately she stood and flung the book away from her and glared at me with hatred: even in her hatred, how beautiful she looked! Indeed, how divine and lofty and unattainable she looked! Having cowed me down with her magnificent and divinely beautiful eyes, (which somehow reminds me of the Queen of Sheba: though I’ve never seen her, I think she must have looked the same), she hissed, “Filthy brute!” I got up and was profusely apologetic. But I could not think of anything to say, so ashamed was I. How could I, such a musically insignificant creature, have dared to desecrate the holy shrine of the sublimest of all arts, that too when such a lovely and pure sylph was presiding over the temple! There was nothing I could say. I just stared at the ground like a child which has just received a good thrashing from its parents. Yes! I was a filthy brute! Oh how could I have done such a thing! I tried to speak, but she silenced me thus: “I’ve had enough of you! I hate the very sight of you! You filthy idiot! Why do you profane my music with your dirty sounds? Clumsy fool! Clumsy hog! All you do is hog and fart like a pig! You are concerned with nothing else, not even me! You don’t even…” here she paused, and almost puked. This again I took to be the delayed effect of diffusion. I was right, for she broke into a series of coughs, and panted like one deprived of air. Even to me the room felt a little close, so I ran to open the windows, but saw that they were already open. I was at a loss as to how to conduct myself, so I hesitatingly limped across and tried to say something, anything, but shame had taken my speech away. It was she who broke the communication gap: “Are you happy now? Satisfied? Oh you ruin everything! One day that I think of playing something for you, you ignorant fool, you ruin even that! Oh why? Why do I keep running into such fools? Oh will I never get a match?” Thinking that here at last was an occasion where I could be of use, I reached into my pocket and offered her the matchbox eagerly, thinking that she’d be pleased at my adroitness. Instead she just shrieked,”Get out! Get out you fool! Get out before I murder you!”
Ah! By the way did I mention that its been three months since we parted, and that I’ve never felt so happy before? Except of course when she’d play the piano and I’d be by her side with a healthy stomach!
…It was at this point, as I was lost in fascination at her beauty; contemplating her hair and her skin, listening to her music, that I let out a fart. It was not too loud, but it was protracted; starting out like the hiss of steam escaping, it ended up sounding like a bass note on a saxophone played out of key. I forgot to mention: the day, in all other respects so perfect, was marred by only one thing, and that was my indigestion. I’d been suffering from it for the past few days, but this day it was at its peak. In point of fact, I was pleasantly surprised that this unfortunate expression of my illness had not found vent till now, and with an embarrassed look on my face and with a quivering trepidation in my heart, I waited for what was sure to follow: my love would lose her concentration, she would stop playing and look at me with disgust for having introduced a discordant note into the proceedings, and I would be wishing the earth would open and swallow me up.
But my love, I was happy to see, was showing the least signs of being disturbed. Whether it was that the offending sound was too feeble or whether she was so totally and completely immersed in her music, I cannot say. Blissfully she went on playing, with that lovely and unconscious smile lighting up her delicate features, and with an inward expression of gratitude, I did not budge, but kept my place as before, and listened to her music.
I do know what she was playing. It was some Western Classical. Probably it was Mozart, but I cannot say for sure. It might have been Beethoven, but then again it might not. Actually I know the names of only three or four composers. Two I have mentioned already, then there was Bach, and then there was that Russian sounding name…some Star or something, which I cannot remember at present. However, it has always been my belief that the music, the emotions it engenders, the way you interpret it, is more important than such pedantry; as a result, whenever my love would deign to play the piano for me, I would not bother myself with such issues, but instead give up to the music, and feel the communion of our souls taking place in the sadness and sweetness of the notes, mingling like waves in the sea. This was one of the most beautiful moments I have ever experienced, this culmination of unspoken words, this climax of the emotions, when the heart is almost ready to weep, so filled to the brim it is with of joy.
It was the second fart that was louder. And this time, it did register. Her eyes, which had been closed partially, as happens when one is lost in music, widened with a wondering expression, and her right eyebrow lifted of its own accord, as if questioning what jangling sound did penetrate the far away secluded mists in which her soul had been flying. However, she had to get back to her sheet immediately, or else she would have lost track of the notes. So she continued. All the same, I could see that it had made itself felt; of that there was no doubt. The smile had left her face. Instead, a slight frown clouded her pure,lofty brow. Her movements lost their original feathery lightness, and became rather abrupt. After a while her olfactory organ twitched: a result of diffusion – the spreading of the molecules of a gas due to the presence of a pressure gradient between one species of molecules and another - or so my physics textbooks inform me. And the music, though technically correct, I am sure, lacked that finesse: that peculiar undefinable thing which separates the heart from the mind. Or perhaps it was only my imagination, my guilty conscience playing havoc. I do not know. All I know is that I had introduced a jarring note into the proceedings, and the only option open to me was to forbear repeating the unfortunate accident, and to sit and pretend that nothing had happened, and to sit and pretend that I was as taken with the music as before. This was the least I could do for my love, who after all seldom shares her music with anyone whom she considers unworthy or lacking in musical sense. My musical ineptitude had become a by-word with her when about three months ago, she was trying to teach me the piano, and I couldn’t make sense of the semi quavers and the hemi demi quavers and all that, all those weird upturned blobs, and she had shouted,”Dammit! Even a horse will have better musical sense than you !” “Really?”, I had responded. “In that case why don’t you get one in my place?” I immediately regretted speaking like this to my love, and I apologised profusely.Things had flared up, and we were almost on the point of break-up, but I persisted, and thankfully, we patched up, otherwise, as the present occasion bore witness, I would have lost the magic of the present moment for ever. Yes! This was a special occasion, and I had no right to ruin it so demeaningly! I sat on, trying to put up a brave face. God! The turbulence raging in my mind! How I wished I had not hogged at a party which was the cause of my present situation. But all these lamentations were in vain. What had happened could not be undone, and the only hope lay in salvaging the present and the future. So I sat there resolutely, determined to silence any rumblings that would threaten to break out.
And then, as the astute observer of life might have guessed, the inevitable happened. This time it was positively a din, like the sound of cloth being torn, …I wonder if anything was torn inside me; for a moment I was terribly worried, and just like a rattle snake rattles loudest when it is about to die, so was the case with me. Immediately she stood and flung the book away from her and glared at me with hatred: even in her hatred, how beautiful she looked! Indeed, how divine and lofty and unattainable she looked! Having cowed me down with her magnificent and divinely beautiful eyes, (which somehow reminds me of the Queen of Sheba: though I’ve never seen her, I think she must have looked the same), she hissed, “Filthy brute!” I got up and was profusely apologetic. But I could not think of anything to say, so ashamed was I. How could I, such a musically insignificant creature, have dared to desecrate the holy shrine of the sublimest of all arts, that too when such a lovely and pure sylph was presiding over the temple! There was nothing I could say. I just stared at the ground like a child which has just received a good thrashing from its parents. Yes! I was a filthy brute! Oh how could I have done such a thing! I tried to speak, but she silenced me thus: “I’ve had enough of you! I hate the very sight of you! You filthy idiot! Why do you profane my music with your dirty sounds? Clumsy fool! Clumsy hog! All you do is hog and fart like a pig! You are concerned with nothing else, not even me! You don’t even…” here she paused, and almost puked. This again I took to be the delayed effect of diffusion. I was right, for she broke into a series of coughs, and panted like one deprived of air. Even to me the room felt a little close, so I ran to open the windows, but saw that they were already open. I was at a loss as to how to conduct myself, so I hesitatingly limped across and tried to say something, anything, but shame had taken my speech away. It was she who broke the communication gap: “Are you happy now? Satisfied? Oh you ruin everything! One day that I think of playing something for you, you ignorant fool, you ruin even that! Oh why? Why do I keep running into such fools? Oh will I never get a match?” Thinking that here at last was an occasion where I could be of use, I reached into my pocket and offered her the matchbox eagerly, thinking that she’d be pleased at my adroitness. Instead she just shrieked,”Get out! Get out you fool! Get out before I murder you!”
Ah! By the way did I mention that its been three months since we parted, and that I’ve never felt so happy before? Except of course when she’d play the piano and I’d be by her side with a healthy stomach!
(With apologies to Sir Elton John)
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posted by changingsun at
11:03 AM
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